Of Curses and Shadows
by The Twisted Lord
Summary: Summary: What if there was a dark secret in Harry’s family? A secret that left Harry not completely human?
1. Prologue: The Darkness of History

Story Name: Of Curses and Shadows

Summary: What if there was a dark secret in Harry's family? A secret that left Harry not completely human?

Prologue: The Darkness of History

The Darkness wasn't capable of impatience. If it had been, it probably would have burst of it sometime during its centuries of waiting. As it was, it waited, unchanged by the constant flitting from host to host, waiting for something that at long last would allow it to burst forth in all its dark glory. Sometimes during its history, the host caused it to stir; to hover on the edge of awaking, but always the host never did more than that, causing the Darkness to retreat back into the depths of the host.

Then, IT had happened; at long last, energy had poured into it, awaking it fully, sending bolts of lightning through it. It had jetted to full consciousness, just in time to see death hurling towards itself and its host. Luckily, the Darkness was not subject to such things as panic. Instead it merely surveyed its surroundings. It, and its host body, were currently surrounded by a simmering shield of some sort; this shield was all that stood between the host body and the approaching maelstrom of magical death. Had it been able to, it would have snarled; it refused to be destroyed, just after the waiting had finally ended, and it was able to live! It lunged forward, bracing itself against the shield, prepared to spend all the power it was capable of summoning to protect itself, and by extension, its host, against death itself.

Then the magic hit. Instantly, the shield bowed under the pressure, nearly snapping before It rushed to support the pressured area. For a crucial moment, the shield gave, allowing a small part of the magic through, hitting the host body before It could intervene. The Darkness however, had no time to take notice of this; all its attention and strength was devoted to holding the shield in place. The shield bent further and further, even with the support of the Darkness, until it was certain the shield would snap under the pressure. Suddenly, without any sort of waning or warning, the pressure was gone as if it had never been.

For a few moments, the Darkness still braced itself against the shield expecting for the pressure to return at any minute. However, the expected pressure did not return, and it detached itself from the now-battered shield to inspect the damage. As it had expected, a considerable part of its own energies had been drained by the encounter, but that mattered little. Already, its stores of energies were beginning to refill. Next, it checked on the host. The host was mostly undamaged, save for a curious marking on its forehead, which practically buzzed with magic of the darkest sort. Taking a closer look, the Darkness noted that the magic didn't seem to be harmful anymore; it was already beginning to fade. However, it seemed to have had a serious effect on the mind of the host. It seemed to have altered it in some way that it couldn't understand completely. But, the change didn't seem to be harmful in any way; in fact, It surmised that, if left alone, they might be very handy in the distant future.

Finally, It turned back to study the shield. During the attack, the shield had taken a severe beating; the Darkness was therefore unsurprised to see that the shield was vastly weaker than before and most unlikely to survive another attack of that magnitude. However, it, after a moment's thought, concluded that it still could be of some purpose. It reached out to the shield, and pulled it in, blinding it into the skin of the host, intertwining flesh, blood, and bone with the tattered remains of the shield. After getting it started, the Darkness was able to leave the shield to itself, merely watching as the shield wove itself in-between and through the outer layers of the host. It was a very complex piece of magic, almost as complex as Itself; through quite different in purpose.

No matter; It had business of its own to accomplish before it could rest. It dived deep into the host, searching, looking; it had to find the perfect place or it might not be able to work to its full potential. There! It swooped into the place filling it totally, beginning to send out dark tentacles of power from the place. Like the shield before it, It began to merge with the host; unlike the shield, however, It's own merging was far deeper, more complex, and had an entirely different purpose in mind. As the merging continued, the Darkness allowed itself to drift away a little; there was no need for It to direct every movement of the merging with the host. Indeed, there was very little need for it now; It had done It's purpose to the letter. Now, it could feel itself beginning to unravel, becoming one with the host. It's last coherent thought was that the waiting was finally over.


	2. Of Escapes and Hunters

isclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or any other characters made by J. K. Rowling.

Chapter One: Of Escapes and Hunters

The Boy was running. He didn't know where he was running to, when he would get there, or what he would do when he got there. He only knew what he was running from. He was running from the cupboard under the stairs, from Dudley's fists and gang, from Uncle's purple face and swinging whip, from Aunt's disproving glare and slapping hand, from the chain at night. As he ran he could almost feel them behind him, waiting for him to slip so they could drag him back into his own private hell.

Around him, the wind howled, hurling snowflakes and small pieces of ice at him, pushing against him with a pure, naked fury. Trees, loaded by piles of snow and bent by the force of the wind, dropped their branches in his path, and seemed to grab and cling to him with long wooden fingers.

Regardless, he ran on, driven by terror, knowing in the depths of his heart that if he slowed for an instant they would be on him, taking their anger out on him, again, and again until he broke and pleaded for mercy; only then would the pain begin to stop. Next they would drag him home, telling him how worthless he was, what a freak he was, and how lucky he was to have them to punish him for being freakish.

Finally, he could run no more, and fell to the ground, curling up into a small ball, waiting for fist and whip to find him, to tear tender skin and break fragile bones. But, they didn't come, and he slowly shifted out of his ball, putting his hands on the ground and heaving himself up, winching a little when his shirt fell against still-healing welts. He looked around from his position, shivering as the wind cut through his thin clothing.

He was kneeling in a small glade, which was dominated by a huge oak, its branches reaching high up into the sky, it's roots twisting and turning before disappearing into the earth. He allowed himself to relax, taking deep calming breaths, letting the chill air fill his lungs. Getting to his feet, he walked over to the oak, sitting on one of the many gnarled tree roots and allowed his gaze to sweep over the peaceful glade.

Suddenly, in the ranks of the trees beyond the glade, there was a snapping sound, which, in the quietness of the forest, sounded like a gunshot. He shot off the root, anxiously looking around, trying to pinpoint the sound. He could only think one thing: They had come! Then something in the depths of the shadows in the trees caught his eye: a shadow, one deeper and blacker than those surrounding it; a moving shadow with glowing yellow eyes! Instinctively, he reached into the back of his mind for the darkness that had been there as long as he could remember. This time however, instead of evading his grasp like a greased pig, it boiled forward, wrapping itself around him like the time Aunt Marge had thrown her coat at him. He gasped as power suddenly flowed through him and his vision turned red. Then he knew no more.

The wolf padded silently into the glade, ignoring the small feeling in its head that something wasn't right. It was an old wolf, as wolfs go, and it hadn't had anything to eat for a very long time. Its hunger, coupled with age, had compelled it to ignore its instincts and follow the human scent here. Humans were a risky prey in its opinion; though remarkably easy to catch and kill. If one was killed, particularly one of the smaller ones, other humans tended to show up sooner or later with their weapons and proceed to make life very difficult for those in the forest, if not impossible. But, all that mattered little to the empty feeling in its belly; it knew if it didn't eat soon, it would die. It sniffed, trying to locate the source of the smell, allowing its mouth to fill up at the thought of sinking its teeth into the first prey in weeks.

It padded forward, ears pricked for the slightest sound, nose sniffing, eyes searching for the human in the glade. As it searched, it began to become uneasy; the human was nowhere to be found and there was a new scent upon the air; a scent that was utterly alien, yet made every hair want to stand up and made it whimper a little. It softened its footsteps and crouched down, and then peered around the oak. A second's warning was all the time it had before something hit it hard on the side, flinging it across the glade where it hit a tree. Before it could get up or even recover its dazed senses, its attacker was upon it, and a sharp claw was at its throat; it had lost before it even knew that it was in a fight for its life.

The Predator slashed across with one claw, and then jumped back a little to avoid getting blood on itself as blood began to explode out of the wide slash that it had made across the throat of the creature. As it waited for the spasms of death to crease, the Predator considered its next move. Though the fight, if it could be called that, had been quite noiseless, the scent of blood would soon attract other predators to the fresh kill. While it was confident that its own might would be enough to hold off any of the forest's natives, while it was distracted, its kill probably would get stolen. It needed a safe place to eat in peace. Then its mouth quirked up in a horrible, fang filled, smile that would have sent most children, as well as some so-called brave men, screaming for mommy. It knew just the place to go. Moments later, the glade was once again empty, devoid of the living nightmare that had spilled blood there, mere seconds ago. This time, however, its quiet peace and beauty were marred by the crimson stain on one of the trees.

Remus Lupin was panicking. This was unusual for the normally calm man, but it could be explained by the problem staring him in the face with all the subtleness of a rhinoceros charging. At first, when he had been contacted by Dumadbole, he had been both overjoyed and worried. On one hand, Harry had run away from his guardians, but on the other hand, it was the first time he had seen James' son since James and Lily had gone under cover.

It had been seven long years of wandering, seven years of wandering among normal people wondering what they would do if they knew the truth about him; would they shoot him looks of pity, or would they ( a far more common reaction) glare at him in pure disgust? Seven years of searching for jobs that vanished as soon as the employer either got fed up with his monthly disappearances, or put two and two together and came up with the word: Werewolf.

So, he had fled to Adbella Figg's home, and been greeted by none other than Dumbadore, along with professor McGoall, Mad-Eye Moody, and for some reason, Severus Snape. After the greeting and in Snape's case, insults were done, they had gotten down to business. Beginning at Number 4, Privet drive, using a mix of magic and Remus's sense of smell (there were perks to being a werewolf) they had been able to trace Harry's path to a small meadow miles from any sign of human habitation. It was there that they had lost the trail.

As far as they could tell, Harry had come up to the tree in the middle of the meadow, sat there for a few minutes, and then circled around the tree and then his scent had changed, to a smell that, while at its core was still Harry, was completely unlike anything that Remus had ever smelled. He had followed the new scent across the glade, where another scent joined, a scent that he recognized as a true wolf. Apparently, there was some kind of fight, which, judging by the amount of wolf blood on a nearby tree, the wolf had lost. But then, they completely lost both the magical trace and Harry's scent.

So, they stood there silently, looking about them as if in hopes that some clue that they had missed would jump out at them. Finally, after what seems hours to the frantic werewolf, Mad-eye spoke

"Well, the boy gave us the best slip I've ever seen. Usually, the most talented wizards leave some sort of trace. Not much, mind you, but enough to tell someone passed that way, at least." He seemed hesitant, "but . . .this boy, has disappeared like smoke on the wind: completely without a trace."

"What do we do now, Abus?" Questioned Mcgonall, her usual sternness lost in favor of frantic worry, an expression that Remus was in total agreement with.

The headmaster, however, appeared to have no immediate answer, which made Remus's heart begin to sink towards his boots. After a moment, Dumbabole, turned towards them, and said,

"I am afraid that Moody is correct; there is no sign, no trace anywhere of Harry Potter, and therefore, we have no real way of tracing him. In short, Harry Potter is lost to us for the moment."

In that moment, Remus felt more desperate then he could ever remember, even more desperate than, when so long ago, James and Sirius had cornered him in the library about why he vanished every single full moon. He stepped forward, catching the headmaster's eye as he did so.

"Professor, are you sure there isn't anything we can do?" Dumbabdole shook his head and said, "I am afraid, Remus, there is nothing that we can do but wait and hope. Wait and hope."

With that, Albus Dumbabdole turned and walked into the forest, disappearing with a soft pop. Seconds later, both of the professors disappeared as well, leaving Remus alone with Mad-eye. Mad-eye studied him for a moment before saying in an uncharacteristicly soft voice "I'm sorry, Lupin."

Then he too turned on his heel and disappeared. Remus watched him go, feeling deeply inside himself, the wolf part of him beginning to howl, a long note filled with sorrow and loss. He let his head drop into a cradle of his hands and dropped to the ground, fighting down the urge to join in the wolf's howl. As a tear began to drip from one eye, a thought escaped him; _"I'm sorry, James"._


	3. 3 Of Storms and Letters

Chapter 2: Of Storms and Letters

_The Man stepped forward, his face hidden by a cloak, and the stick in his hand pointed at the floor between him and the red-haired lady standing in his path. He spoke in a high cold voice, but his words were mere babble to Harry, who was standing by clinging onto the side of his crib, trying to get the attention of the lady. The lady however, didn't turn towards him, and began shaking her head. The Man began to speak again, only to be cut off by the lady's panicked voice. _

_That was where things suddenly seemed to go wrong, or so Harry thought. The Man brought his stick up from where it had been pointing at the floor, and spoke a short phase. Green light suddenly flashed from it and hit the lady in the chest. She seemed to just crumble, her voice disappearing as if the light had stolen it from the air. Harry screamed, somehow knowing that she would never get up again, never speak to him in her loving voice, never hold him again. _

_The Man however, seemed not to care, lowering his stick and turning his attention to Harry, as if he had done no more than swat a troublesome fly. He said something Harry couldn't understand, but the sheer evil and malice in his voice made Harry want to cower in a corner. He stepped forward, over the body of the lady, bringing his stick to bear on Harry himself. He spoke the phase again, and green light flashed. Pain obliterated the world._

Harry Potter gasped and shot up off the ledge that served as his bed, clutching at his forehead as the pain from the dream began to fade. When it had faded completely, he stood, still panting, and pushed away from the ledge. His eyes shot around the cavern in which he lived, half excepting the Man to step out of the shadows, and bring his stick to bear on him. However, no such thing happened, and Harry forced himself to move towards the fireplace he had made when he first arrived. He grabbed the tools he used to start the fire, and began to rub them against each other. As his hands worked, his thoughts drifted towards what had brought him here.

It had begun a week or so before he actually ran away, he thought. He had been standing in a corner of the local playground, watching the other children play when Dudley and his gang had surrounded him. They had begun to taunt and push him around, when suddenly Harry couldn't take it anymore. He had struck out, and next thing he knew, they were all crawling away from him, their eyes filled with a fear normally only seem in the eyes of their victims. Bruises appeared where Harry had stuck them.

The punishment for that incident had been the worst he had ever had, but that night as he lay in his cupboard, he had begun to plan. It had been the work of moments to swipe a screwdriver and use it to unhinge the door of the cupboard. It had been far harder to swipe the key to his chain, since Uncle carried it around on his belt. However, he had managed to get it when Uncle had made the mistake of bending over to enter the cupboard. He had waited through the rest of the day excepting Uncle to miss his key at any moment, but nothing had happened.

Once he was sure they were all soundly asleep, he had unhinged the door, and unlocked his chain. Next, he had crept down the hallway, ears perked for the slightest sound from upstairs. Thankfully, the lock on the front door was a simple one and Uncle hadn't bothered to lock it with his key. Once outside, he simply dropped the screwdriver and the key and had run as far and as fast as he could.

He had little memory of what had happened next, but he did have a few murky images; running through a forest, panic and terror clawing at him, an oak tree dominating a glade in front of him, power coursing through him as the darkness flowed into him and then the feel of his hand slashing through his prey.

His next clear memory was coming to on the floor of the cave he was in now, with blood on his chest and arms and around his mouth, and the half eaten body of a wolf across the cave from him. It didn't take much thought to realize what had happened. He had reached into the back of his mind to feel at the darkness and had been surprised at its feel. Before, it had felt similar to a mist, but now it felt like a liquid, one that stuck to his mental touch as he pulled away. After spending a few minutes gathering his courage, he had grabbed at it. Like before, it had flowed into him, sending power throughout him. This time, however, his vision had not turned red and, more importantly, he hadn't blackened out.

After a few moments, he had found himself staring at an armored claw-like hand. A couple movements had told him that yes, that was his hand, and that it felt far more powerful than before. He 

had then risen to his feet and found himself standing at twice his normal height, which quite frankly, made him feel rather lightheaded. After he got accustomed to his new height, he had conducted a few experiments. First, his claws seemed to be able to slice through stone as well as flesh, through nowhere as fast. Second, no matter how he stepped, unless he purposelessly made it, he moved without a sound. Thirdly and finally, he had discovered tentacles protruding from his back, which he was able to control as easily as if they were simply additional arms.

Shortly afterwards, the reality of what had happened hit him. He had crumbled to the ground, trying to find some sort of refuge from the harsh, cold, truth. But, there was none to be found. The truth had struck down his already battered defenses and pounced on him with all the power of a lion. He was worse than just a freak now; he was also a monster, a creature out of the stories his kindergarten teacher had read to the whole class. Then another bit of reality hit, and he felt strength beginning to return to him. Yes, he was a monster and a freak, too, but on this storm-blasted rock of an island, who would care? What person would care about a monster on a barren rock?

When he had gotten used to his new body, he had stepped out of the cavern, right into the biggest storm he had ever seen or heard. Shortly after he left the cavern, he learned his senses had increased as well; unfortunately, he had learned this due to a particularly loud burst of thunder. Thunder aside, he thought that he had been somewhat lucky. First, a large tidal pool was close by to the cave entrance; this pool seemed to be filled with fish of all sorts and colors, as well as a large number of crabs. Second, while the island wasn't very big and it was mostly rock, it had a considerable amount of trees scattered around the island; enough to start and keep a fire going for a very long time. Thirdly, 

when he had come back to the cave, he had found a moss growing on some of the cave walls; while the moss was surprisingly tasty, it also was quite useful in repairing his clothes.

After a bit more exploring, he had decided to name his new home Storm Island because in the few days he had been there, it never stopped raining. It was, he decided, the perfect place for a monster, a freak like himself.

And so he had stayed for, by his count, close to two and a half years, two years of sleeping on a rock ledge, two years of eating fish, crabs, and moss (he was growing very tired of all three), and on occasion standing on one of the island's many cliffs, staring out to sea and wishing something, anything would happen. Of course, he had no idea that far away, an ancient form of magic was beginning to, as it did every year, to wake up and send opportunity soaring through the air. No way of knowing that the Wizarding world was going to come knocking on his door (or in this case, write a letter). Without a doubt, life was going to throw a curveball to a Mr. H Potter.

--

Minerva McGonagall strode along the castle corridor, wishing that the butterflies in her stomach would go away or at least settle down. She was on her way to one of her many duties of deputy headmistress: the yearly writing of the acceptance letters. Normally, this task wouldn't hold such anxiety for her, but then it had never reached quite this level of importance, both to her and to the wizarding world at large. For this was the year that they would see if the Boy Who Lived still lived or had fallen to some darkness. Therefore, it was with a sense of great pressure, as if the whole world had gathered to watch her write, that she walked into the Room of Letters.

No one, not even Albus himself knew quite how the magic that governed the Room of Letters worked. What was known, however, was that the magic centered around two objects. First, the Book of Names, in which every magical child's name with enough power to come here was recorded at birth. Second, and more importantly, was the Quill, which both recorded the names and, years later, wrote the addresses on the letters sent to them. All Minerva had to do was to write seven letters; one for each year of students, and then the Quill would take over. It would copy her handwriting perfectly, and then a small bit of magic would float the paper into the envelope and seal it. Then she would take the pile of letters up to the Owlery. There, owls would take the letters to their intended recipients.

This time, however, she had to do something a bit differently. All first year letters, along with the normal sheet of equipment, included a set of directions to the Leaky Cauldron. Those addressed to Muggle-born wizards and witches also included a key to a fund set aside for them. In this case, she would have to put the key to the Potter vault into Harry Potter's letter. Then she would take the letter up to Headmaster Dumbledore and Professor Snape, who always could be found in the Headmaster's office at this time of day, at least in the summer. There, they would study the address; hopefully, one of them would be able to recognize the address and Hagrid could be sent with the letter to pick up Harry Potter. If not, they would send it the normal way, and hope for the best. Of course, all this assumed that there still was a Harry Potter to write to…

Minerva shook her head firmly; she would deal with that problem when and if it loomed, even if she didn't know exactly what she would do if it appeared. Now, however, there were letters to be 

written. She knew the wording of the letters of course; long years of writing the same thing, year after year had burned the words into her memory. Therefore, she was able to do the writing with effortless ease. When she was done, she took the letter over to the Quill, making sure the inkpot by it was full before she set the paper down. Then she stepped back. The Quill instantly rose into the air, hovering over the paper for a minute before it drifted over to the inkpot and dipped itself in. Then it returned to the paper and began to write.

Normally, at this point Minerva would have left the room while the Quill wrote the letters, but this time there was too much riding on this particular moment. So, instead of leaving, she drew up a chair and watched as the Quill continued to write. Later, as the Quill finished up the O's and moved on to the P's Minerva sat forward in her chair, holding her breath. To her eyes, the Quill seemed to hesitate for a heartbeat before writing the name: Mr. Potter on a fresh sheet of paper. Almost without her knowing it, she sat back in her chair, letting her breath out as she did so. The Quill seemed to take forever to finish the letter, but at last, the unseen magic of the room picked up the paper and inserted it into a nearby envelope. Then, further confirming the identity of the person, the Quill turned it over and wrote on the back: Mr. H. Potter.

When the Quill had finished, Minerva simply stared at the letter for a full minute before carefully reaching out, as if the letter would disappear if she moved too fast. It didn't, of course, and Minerva's frazzled nerves began to quiet down as she simply held the letter. Shortly afterwards, a thought hit her; Albus had wanted her to bring Harry Potter's letter to him. She got up from her chair, and abandoning her usual dignified pace, ran like a madwoman out of the room.

Severus Snape stared across the table, trying (most successfully) not to let any of his nervousness show to his opponent. He had just come to one of the more risky parts of his plan and one hint of uncertainty could bring his whole plan crashing down around his ears. He made his move carefully, studying his opponent's face carefully as he did so. Therefore, he was understandably horrified when his opponent's face split into a smile, and he realized he had made a mistake.

Albus Dumbledore continued to smile as he lowered his own hand to the chess board and moved his queen towards Severus's king. He opened his mouth and the hated word began to escape: "Checkma…". BANG. The door opened suddenly, bouncing off the wall, and Professor McGonagall shot into the room, her bun of hair half undone and shrieking at the top of her voice, "It's here Albus, It's here!"

Once Severus had fought down his reaction (drawing his wand and sending a few curses) he got up and joined Albus in calming the overexcited Transfiguration professor. Once she had settled down, they got down to business. "I never heard of Storm Island before," Severus snarled, wishing, wherever the boy had gone, that he at least could have had the decency to go someplace that he knew about.

Next to him, her stern dignity returned, Professor McGonagall sat back in her chair, her defeated sigh saying just as well as words that she knew nothing. Albus himself seemed somewhat confused, as if the name seemed to tug at something at the edge of memory, but couldn't quite bring it into focus. Then he sat forward, apparently giving up on the struggle, and said, "We will just have to send this the normal way then. Here is the key."

McGonagall took the key and rose from her chair, leaving the room without another word. Behind her both Severus and Albus watched her disappear, listening until even the faintest of echoes faded and disappeared, upon which Albus turned his attention back to the board, which had lain forgotten between them for the past couple of minutes. Severus felt his dread begin to reappear. Across the desk, Albus's smile returned tenfold, and he leaned forward. "Where were we? Ah, yes, Checkmate!"


	4. A Trip to the Alley

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter

Chapter 3: A Trip to the Alley

The owl flew on and on, crossing rivers, going over mountains, plains and trees with the same equal ease. His path was unvaried, no matter the obstacle; he flew unhurried over mountains with the same ease he did while flying over plains. Other than this, there was nothing to mark it as strange or out of the ordinary other than the fact that this owl was carrying something: a letter to be precise, one addressed to a Mr. H Potter.

The owl himself wasn't totally aware of the importance of the letter he carried; though he knew something was up. The lady who sent these letters had been too anxious, had dithered over too many owls before picking himself to deliver this particular letter. She had even told him to be careful, as if he would be anything but careful when doing his duty.

Ahead he could see a vast body of water, which he somehow knew, though he never seen it before, was the ocean. As he came closer, he could tell, in the way all letter delivering owls could, that the person to whom the letter belonged was somewhere out in the ocean. For a moment, the owl hesitated, balking at the fact that he would have to fly an unknown distance over the ocean, where he would have no way to rest if his wings faltered. Then he remembered his duty, and pressed onwards. However, as he passed over the last stand of trees before the ocean, he decided that if he was going to risk the flight over the ocean, he'd better rest a bit first.

Later, the owl decided that the idea to rest had probably been one of his best ideas throughout his years of letter delivering. Not only had the flight been considerably longer than he had expected, but, judging by the menacing black thundercloud, the going was about to get very rough. For a moment, the owl faltered; he could still turn back... Shaking his head to remove the traitorous thought, the owl swept on. The letter delivering owls had, since the wizards had selected them for duty, delivered letters without fail, no matter the conditions. He wasn't about to tarnish that reputation.

So, on he went into the very teeth of the growing storm. A couple of minutes later, through the pouring sheets of rain and against the bright light of the lightning bolts, the owl noticed the dark form of an island. He turned a little and made his way towards the island, eyes wide for any sign of the person he was delivering to. Seconds later, he was rewarded with the orange-reddish light of a fire. In the time honored way of owls everywhere, he folded his wings and dove towards the flickering light. Mere moments before he would have hit the relentless waves, he straightened out and shot for the light, waiting for just the perfect moment to release his burden.

Harry Potter had gotten up just a few minutes ago and was trying to decide whether it was worth the trouble of going out into the storm to grab some crabs for his breakfast when the letter arrived. He was standing near the entrance, staring into the rather unappetizing mess of moss, when something white and small shot into the cave and right at him. Instinctively, he ducked and was 

rewarded with a small wind as it shot overhead. After eyeing the cave entrance for a moment, to see if it was going to shoot anything else at him, he turned around to get a better look at the object.

It was a letter; a letter addressed to him! For a moment, Harry stood in shock; who would write to him? Who even knew he existed? Then curiosity overwhelmed shock, and he stumbled forward, one trembling hand going to pick up the letter. Once it was in his grasp he brought it up, tightening his grip so that his still trembling hand wouldn't drop it back on the floor. Then, just to be certain that this wasn't some sort of mistake, he read the address on the back again.

**Mr. H. Potter**

**The Cave on the North Side**

**Storm Island**

Harry stumbled back a little, and sat down, still holding the letter in one hand. It wasn't a mistake after all; someone really had written to him; someone did know he existed. Another wave of curiosity swept through him and he flipped the letter over and opened it. In the letter were a couple pieces of paper as well as some sort of key. Harry reached in and grabbed the closest piece. On the paper, written in the same spidery handwriting as the address, he read:

**HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY**

**Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore**

**(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc Chr. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)**

**Dear Mr. Potter,**

**We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. Term begins on 1 September.**

**Yours sincerely,**

**Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress**

Harry read it over again, half thinking it was some kind of huge joke, but the facts were there. Who would go to all the trouble of writing a letter to him, let alone delivering it in this weather, all just to play a prank on him? Which left only one logical option: it was real. Harry felt like a balloon was being blown up in him; he wasn't a freak after all; he was a _wizard_. Suddenly, the balloon popped; he may not be a freak in the sense that Uncle had told him, but he still was a monster. Did he dare to step out of his safe place, here on the island? For a moment, he dithered; stay here, where it was safe, or try and make a better life for himself? Then he realized that this was what he had been waiting for, without even knowing; the chance to leave this island, even for a short while, with a purpose. Besides, if he didn't go, 

he would never be able stop wondering what would have happened had he gone. So, it was settled in his mind; Harry Potter, monster and former freak, was going to Hogwarts.

Tom the Barman (even he had long since forgotten his last name) was washing glasses while he waited for customers or perhaps a Hogwarts bound Muggle-born (he did love showing them the alley). It wasn't a particularly hard job, being made easier by years of practice. But it was time consuming and he needed to pay close attention to the job so the glasses would be entirely clean; it wouldn't do for someone to get sick.

For that reason, he didn't glance up immediately when the door leading to the Muggle world opened and somebody came through. In fact, he didn't know somebody was in the room until a polite cough drew his attention away from the glass he was cleaning. Shoving the minor annoyance at being interrupted into the back of his mind, he looked up and put a friendly smile on his face. Or rather looked down; his customer was, without a doubt, one of the shortest children he had ever met. The boy, besides his size, was somewhat unremarkable, dressed in clothing that, while somewhat shabby and considerably too big for him, was at least very well cared for. As for physical features, a mop of unruly black hair that made Tom want to reach for a comb, and almost startlingly green eyes behind a pair of hideous glasses was all that truly stood out about him.

Inwardly, Tom smiled; judging by the way the boy seemed comfortable in the muggle clothing (a sure sign that he wasn't of wizarding stock) he was Muggle-born and Tom would get to do the honors of welcoming him into the wizarding world. "Where are your parents?" he questioned, looking around.

For a moment, a simmer of grief showed in those eyes. "_Oops" _thought Tom, wincing inwardly. The boy, glancing down towards his shoes, "They, um," he stammered, "They're dead."

To cover the awkward moment, Tom changed the subject. "I image you want into the alley then?"

The boy glanced back up at Tom, "yes, please".

"Follow me then" said Tom, getting out from behind the bar and heading for the door leading to the alley. After tapping the bricks in the required order, slowly enough that the boy could see and remember the pattern, Tom turned around, just in time to see awe spread across the boy's face. Despite himself, Tom smiled; he did so like introducing Muggle-borns to the Wizarding world; it was one of the reasons he enjoyed working here.

Coughing a little to cover his amusement, Tom told the boy to first stop by Gringotts, where he could get money, which was followed by a brief discussion on wizard money. Then, a small bell went off and Tom hurried the boy through. Once through, the boy turned around, presumably to say thank you, but even if he had been audible over the roar of the bricks reforming the wall, Tom likely wouldn't have heard him anyways. He was too busy staring at the boy's forehead, where, when he turned around, his bangs had been swept to the side, revealing the lightning bolt shaped scar that made him one of the Wizarding World's most famous people still alive: Harry Potter, The Boy who Lived!

Tom just stood there and gaped for a couple of minutes, thinking absently that if, by some chance, a muggle had seen him, he would look rather silly standing here staring open-mouthed at a blank wall. Then something nagged at the back of his mind, and he remembered. Close to two weeks ago, Albus Dumbledore had dropped by, and told Tom to notify himself immediately if Harry Potter came through the Leaky Cauldron. Tom turned, and bolted into the Cauldron, shot like a bullet across the room, and grabbed some Floo power from the bowl on the mantel piece. He threw it into the fire, yelling "Hogwarts" as he did so.

Goblins were usually very hard to intimidate or scare. For this reason, Griphook found himself unsure exactly why he wanted to cringe before the small, fragile looking boy currently standing before his desk. It certainly had nothing to do with his physical appearance; the boy looked as if a strong wind could carry him away with no trouble at all. He didn't even seem to give off any sense of danger, but nevertheless, Griphook's instincts were all saying to get away from the boy as fast as possible. And after nearly fifty years of working topside, Griphook had learned to trust his instincts.

Unfortunately, Griphook couldn't follow his first impulse of getting up and running away; like it or not, the boy was a customer, and in Gringotts, you got in very hot water if the customer wasn't served quickly. So, Griphook gulped, and in his best please-the-customer voice said "May I help you, Sir?"

The boy looked up "Eer, yes, do you have a vault that matches this key, please?" he reached up and put a key on the desk (Griphook did his best not to flinch). Griphook picked the key and exclaimed it for a moment. He had recognized it the moment the boy put it on the desk, but it never hurt to be careful (and it gave him an excuse to think for a moment.) Fact one: this was the key to the Potter vault, which meant that the boy could only be Harry Potter, the only survivor of that line. Fact two: the fact the boy was famous did nothing to explain why his nerves were screaming at him. Fact three: Since it had nothing to do with fame, the boy probably had some sort of dark secret, and judging by his instincts, Griphook probably didn't want to know what that secret was.

So, Griphook decided, it probably would be best to do nothing out of the ordinarily and hope this didn't come back to bite him later. "Yes, we have a vault that this key goes to. Keephold!" Keephold, one of his better subordinates, strode over from where he had been standing against the wall. He bowed, and save for a sudden stiffness, showed all most no reaction to the boy as he led him out of the room. As he watched them go, Griphook found he was quite thankful that he wasn't a cart goblin anymore.

Harry Potter sat down on the other side of the cart from his goblin guide, and tried not to start when the cart suddenly began moving without a single movement from the goblin. They shot down the track, turning every couple seconds or so it seemed to Harry (he lost count after about thirty seconds). Harry, whose eyes were being to sting a little from the speed, wondered how the cart worked; Keephold didn't seem to be driving. Down and down they went, (once, Harry thought he saw a burst of fire), passing a huge underground lake, cave openings, and occasionally, other carts. They came into a door lined passage, and Harry gaped as the largest man he had ever seen came out of an open vault stuffing something small and wrapped into his coat. As they passed, Harry twisted in his seat to keep the giant in view and was rewarded with the number on the vault: seven hundred and thirteen. Then they turned a corner, and the giant was gone. Finally, after what seemed like an hour, they came to a stop, next to a small door in the wall.

Keephold jumped out of the cart, and, after requesting the key from Harry, opened the door. As it swung open, Harry felt as if his heart had skipped a beat; beyond that simple wooden door, lay a pile of treasure right out of those pirate movies Dudley had liked so much. Gold and silver coins were stacked in vast heaps, and everywhere he looked, were vast qualities of smaller bronze coins. Moving forward, Harry pulled a small bag out of his pocket (he had made it himself, with a particularly tough batch of moss) and began to fill it with coins. A few minutes later, he blinked in the sudden light as he came out of the first set of doors. After adjusting, he walked over and leaned against a pillar. Still holding on to the moneybag, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the letter. After a bit of rummaging he found the list:

**HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY**

**Uniform First-year students will require**

**1. Three sets of plain work robes (black)**

**2. One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear**

**3. One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)**

**4. One winter cloak (black, silver fastenings**

**Please note that all pupils' clothes should carry name tags**

**Set Books**

**All students should have a copy of each of the following**

**The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) by Miranda Goshawk**

**A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot**

**Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling**

**A Beginners' Guide to Transfiguration by Emeric Switch**

**One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phyllida Spore**

**Magical Drafts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger**

**Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt Scamander**

**The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection by Quentin Trimble**

**Other Equipment**

**1 wand**

**1 cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)**

**1 set glass or crystal phials**

**1 telescope**

**1 set brass scales**

**Students may also bring an owl OR a cat OR a toad**

**PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST-YEARS ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICKS**

Harry looked up from the list and glanced around. After a moment, a sign caught his eye. Well, not actually a sign, just some peeling letters over the wall; at any rate, the letters read: **Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 BC. **In the window of the shop, Harry saw, as he moved closer, was a stick that he assumed was a wand on a faded looking purple cushion.

When he opened the door and stepped into the shop, a small bell above the door rang and Harry looked around, suddenly nervous. Inside the shop, it was like he had stepped into another world entirely; a world that had no part of the busy, crowded, noisy alley outside. In here, silence ruled. However, under the silence and the dust, Harry could feel a strange sense of power; it seemed to be coming from the many narrow boxes stacked on each shelve. Suddenly, from right behind himself, a voice spoke "I did wonder when I would be seeing you, Mr. Potter."

Harry jumped and tried to turn, at the same time, with the predictable effect of nearly losing his balance. Once he had regained his balance, he completed his turn to find that an old man had come, seemingly out of nowhere, to stand behind him. Harry stared for a long moment, (those silvery eyes were quite creepy), before managing to gasp out "How did you know my name?"

The man smiled, which made Harry feel a little better, and said "You are almost the perfect image of your father, Mr. Potter, except for your eyes; you have your mother's eyes."

Feeling a little self-conscious, Harry whispered "My mother?"

The man's smile only widened, and he continued, "Yes, Mr. Potter, I remember them both quite well. Your mother came here first; her wand was willow, ten and a quarter inches, very suitable for Charms. Your father on the other hand, preferred transfiguration and as such, got a mahogany wand; Eleven inches, a little more powerful, and, of course, very suitable for transfiguration. Unfortunately," here the man's smile disappeared and he pointed at the lighting scar on Harry's forehead, "I also sold the wand that did that; most powerful wand, that one: Thirteen and a half inches. Yew. If I had known what that wand was going to do, I might not have made it, let alone let it go into the world. Sadly, there is no way to turn the past around; on the other hand, it's no use thinking about what-might-beens; I believe you want your own wand now, Mr. Potter?" Not quite trusting himself to speak, Harry nodded.

"Very good, then; tell me, which is your wand-hand?" Harry blinked and thought for a moment; "Err, I'm right-handed, sir." The man's smile reappeared, and he said, "No need to call me sir, Mr. Potter; now, try this one: Beachwood and dragon heartstring. Nine inches. Nice and flexible." Harry took the wand and suddenly realized that he didn't have the slightest idea of what to do with it. Mr. Ollivander (at least, Harry assumed it was him) seemed to sense Harry's confusion, because he snapped, "Well; give it a wave." Feeling quite silly, Harry complied, only to have the wand snatched out of his hand before he had even completed the movement. Next instant, however, Mr. Ollivander placed another one in his hand. Harry waved it, and Mr. Ollivander grabbed it again. This pattern went on and on for what seemed like hours, before Mr. Ollivander disappeared into one of the back rows, only to reappear with an another wand cradled in his hand. Harry took the wand, wishing he knew what Mr. Ollivander was looking for; then he felt it: warmth shot through his hand from the wand. He gave the wand a quick, side to side wave. Instantly, the shop seemed to darken a little, and a not-quite solid sense of menace filled the air. Mr. Ollivander clapped, but his smile suddenly seemed false, and Harry heard him mutter under his breath something about how curious it was. "Err, what's so curious, sir?"

Mr. Ollivander turned, and gave him a curious stare. "Mr. Potter, I remember every wand I sell, and it just so happens that the phoenix that gave the feather currently residing in your wand gave just one other; I find it very curious indeed that you should destined for this wand, when its brother gave your scar."

"My scar? But I got it in a …." Mr. Ollivander interrupted before he could get any further "As curious as I find it, Mr. Potter, I think this means that we can expect great things from you. After all, He Who Must Not Be Named did great things; terrible, yes, but great just the same." Harry felt like he was bursting with questions, but, judging by the grave look on Mr. Ollivander's face, now wasn't the time. So, he paid for his wand (seven Galleons) and left the wand shop. Once out, he studied the list again and decided, since he could see some sort of clothing store, that he would get his robes next.

The Leaky Cauldron was empty (not a common occurrence during the daytime). However, that changed when the fire turned green, and Albus Dumbledore, followed by his Heads of Houses, stepped through. Tom's attempt to warn him had been hopelessly delayed by a series of unfortunate events. First, when Tom first arrived at Hogwarts, Albus had been at the Ministry of Magic, sorting out a paperwork problem (Professor Spout really needed to start washing her hands before signing any 

papers), and hadn't gotten back for fifteen minutes after Tom arrived. Next, it had taken Albus nearly five minutes to calm down the excited barkeeper, who had been nearly bouncing off the walls of his office. Finally, it took another five minutes to gather his Heads, and get a detailed description out of the barkeeper. And now they were here, almost twenty-five minutes later than Albus had hoped for.

He strode out of the bar and into Diagon Alley, planning as he went. First, they would stop at Gringotts; it might take awhile for Harry to get money out of the goblins. If he wasn't there, they would break up and search the alley, shop by shop. However, several minutes later, Albus began to think going to Gringotts was a waste of time. For some reason, the senior manger goblin was acting very oddly. When they had first asked, the manger had started, and for a moment, Albus saw something that he had only seen once before on a goblin: Stark terror.

After that, the investigation took on the feel of a Muggle root canal with no pain killer. The goblin refused to answer any of their questions, and finally gave them the boot. After that, Albus and Snape visited Ollivander's. There, Ollivander greeted them with the news that Harry Potter had been and gone, and that, as Dumbledore had thought it might, the brother wand of Voldemort's wand had chosen him. Shortly afterwards, they met up with the rest of the group, who had the same amount of success: zero. However, there was one more place to check: Flourish and Blotts. So, organizing themselves behind Albus again, they shot off towards the bookstore.

Harry Potter stepped out of the bookstore, shifting his load of clothing, wrapped books and equipment so that they didn't dig into his body. He never had been on a shopping trip before, but he believed that, for a first-timer, he had done rather well. When he had entered the robe shop, the proprietor, a tall and haughty looking elderly witch, had taken one look at his frayed clothing and stalked into the back room, muttering something about riffraff; Harry might have been insulted, but he had been called far worse, and her assumption did have some truth to it.

Shortly afterwards, the woman had come back with a bundle of clothing. Based on the woman's impression of him, Harry wasn't surprised to see that the clothing was quite well used, and probably too big for him, if the way they easily stretched around his purchases was any clue. The stop by the apothecary had gone much better; the owner was much friendlier, and hadn't even blinked an eye at Harry's ragged condition. The owner, once he had seen that Harry didn't know the difference between a cauldron and a cook pot, had even pointed what Harry should get; a plain pewter cauldron, a stirring rod with a leather handle, and a few glass vials.

Harry's stops at the few animal stores, however, were completely fruitless. The moment he had stepped into the owl shop, which had been filled with soft hooting, and the ruffling of feathers, the shop instantly froze as if Harry was some sort of owl-eating monster. For all he knew about his other form, he 

could be. Looking around, he had realized that, in the couple of seconds he had been in the owlery, he was the focus of every single eye in the room (except the human ones). Needless to say, the experience was most unnerving. The other shops had similar reactions. The cats, being predators themselves, acted much like the owls; they had gone stiff and silent, and watched his every movement like they might do for another, bigger predator. The rats on the other hand, had huddled in the corners of their cages, and started squealing when he got too close. The toads, oddly enough, showed no reaction beyond a few croaks, but Harry, not liking the slimy look of their skin, refused to get one. So, he had journeyed on, petless.

The bookstore had been mostly uneventful; except when he had nearly crashed into another boy. Once they had both recovered from the near crash, the boy (about his own age, taller, of course, and possessing strangely colored hair, a sort of silvery blond) examined him from head to toe, sneered, and walked off saying something about Mudbloods, whatever those were. So, here he was, standing on the steps with all his shopping done.

Now, he had nothing to but wait and read all his school books in preparation for this school, and hope that he could keep his secret safe. He was about to descend the steps and find a dark alley when someone to his right yelled, "There he is!"

Harry's head shot up just in time to see the man who had shouted lift his arm and point; directly at him! Harry shot down the steps and took off running. Fortunately for him, the crowd both was loose enough for him to get through and seemed to not have paid any attention to the man's shouting. Ahead of him, he could see an alley; if he could get in there, it might be dark enough for him to escape. It was three shops ahead of him… two shops… one shop…. He was in the side ally, and he could escape. He threw himself into the waiting shadows, and was gone.

bold writing is taken directly from the Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone c.1996 by J.K. Rowling


	5. All Aboard!

Chapter 4: All aboard!

As usual, King's Cross was crowded with swarms of people hurrying here and there. Today however, some of the crowd were a bit strange looking. Some merely looked stiff and uncomfortable in their clothing, as if it was too tight or they were unused to it. Others sneered at people passing by, as if asking why such filthy beings dared come close to them. And, most strangely of all, some looked as if they weren't quite sure what to wear, or how to wear it, resulting in a number of odd combos that made them look as if they had just escaped from the circus.

Outside, however, strange or not, few remained more than long enough to hurry from one shelter to another. Therefore, no one was in a small alley not too far from King's Cross. And no one saw the shadows gather, darken and expand before Harry Potter, dragging a rather battered trunk behind him, marched out of them.

It had been a very fruitful month. Once he had gotten back from the Alley, (and gotten over his minor panic attack) he had gotten down to looking over his books. He had read them all, cover to cover, several times, both for a diversion from his so interesting life on Storm Island, and because he wanted be ready when September rolled around.

Both those reasons had nearly been forgotten when he had cracked the first book. He had never been what anyone would call a bookworm, (it was difficult to read in a cupboard), but every page in the books were so interesting. He had been hooked by the first chapter in the very first book.

However, nowhere in the books had he been able to find anything about Platform 9 ¾ s. And, now, here he was, with a trunk full of supplies, and a ticket to a train on a platform that didn't exist. In other words, he had a problem. He told himself not to panic; there had to some way to get to the platform; perhaps it was like the way into the alley; maybe he needed to pull out his wand and start tapping the wall between the platforms?

Clinging on to that hope, he walked quickly up the street to King's Cross and slipped inside the building. Once inside, he began to make his way towards the platforms; only to almost be run over by a small army of redheads. One of them, an older boy with glasses said "excuse me" as he passed, but the rest, caught up in some augment, failed to even notice he was there. As they passed however, Harry felt hope rise within him; one of them, the boy with glasses, had an owl!

Here were a whole family of wizards and they, judging by their purposeful manner, knew exactly what to do. Turning on the spot, Harry fell in behind them, careful to remain far back enough so that they wouldn't notice him, and close enough so that he wouldn't lose them. In total, there were six of them: A jolly looking elder woman, who had the air of practiced control that only experienced mothers had, the elder boy, who, with his slim and rather stern build, looked like a perfect follow the rules type, a pair of twins, whose smiles screamed troublemakers, a somewhat nervous looking younger boy who seemed about Harry's age, and a still younger girl. All of them, as expected, towered over Harry.

Harry suppressed a sigh at this latest fact; was he always going to be a midget in a world of giants? Midget or not, however, he wasn't going to give up just because of his size. Suddenly, for no reason that Harry could see, the family came to a stop. The family matron motioned to the older boy, saying "Percy, you go first."

Percy, after a swift nod, wheeled his cart around, making his owl squawk in surprise, and approached one of the pillars. Then he began to run at it and Harry cringed, waiting for the crash. But there wasn't one; instead, Percy just vanished into the wall as if he had never been there. Before Harry could get over his shock, the twins shot after him, and disappeared likewise. Next, the younger boy took a deep breath and charged after his brothers. Then, walking much slower than the boys, the matron and the smaller girl walked into the barrier.

Harry stared at the wall, wondering if he was seeing things; an entire family couldn't just disappear into a brick wall; it just wasn't possible. But then, it probably wasn't possible for a boy to turn into a monster, complete with fangs and claws. He gave the wall another look; it certainly looked very solid. But, if he was right, it wasn't solid at all. Harry took a deep breath, gathered all his nerve and before it could desert him, ran at the wall.

There was a light, cool feeling, as if he had run through a sheet of water (a common experience on Storm Island) and then he was past into another platform. This platform, unlike its counterparts outside, was host to an old fashioned stream train, like Harry had seen once in a museum. It was painted red and had the name Hogwarts Express on the side, in big old-fashioned writing. More importantly, a sign nearby bore the legend: Platform 9 ¾. Harry smiled; he had made it.

He moved towards the train, passing by the red-headed family as he went. He lifted his trunk onto the train, with no trouble, but he got a few stares; apparently, normal human kids weren't supposed to be able to lift trunks nearly their own size over their heads. After that through, things went 

very smoothly. He was even able to find an empty compartment near the end of the train. Five or so minutes later, there was a whistle and the train began to move. Harry reached into his trunk and pulled out one of the schoolbooks. If they had to use a train, the journey was probably going to take a while.

--

Hermione Granger walked down the passage, struggling not to break down right there in the passage, and cry her heart out. To think that she had, only thirty minutes ago, had such high hopes for a new start.

As long she could remember, strange things had been happened around her, things that not even she could explain or understand how they happened. These unexplainable events made the other children mistrust and dislike her even more then they would have if she had been simply a bookworm and teacher's pet.

As a result, Hermione had been even more overjoyed than even her parents when the letter showed up. At last, she held an explanation for every single happening: she was a witch. More than that, she had a chance to start anew, among people who understood, who wouldn't judge her because of things that were out of her control.

She had enjoyed every second of being in the new world; even the shopping, which she normally preferred to let her mother take care of. She had stared at the numerous potion ingredients, felt a delicious shiver go down her back as Mr. Ollivander tested wands on her, and tore through the bookstore (her mother had to finally drag her away). Her mother had even, to Hermione's delight, gotten her a beautiful snowy owl, which Hermione had promptly named Hedwig, in honor of one of the names in her new books.

It was amazing how a few simple insults could take that glorious sense of acceptance, and throw it away like garbage. And to think, all she had done was open a door. She had been moving through the passage, looking for a place to sit, when she had opened a door and entered an already full compartment. She had been turning around to leave; obviously they didn't have room for her, when the entire compartment exploded with insults.

It wasn't so much the insults that hurt; she had been taunted and insulted too many times by children looking to get back at the teacher's pet for insults to hurt much. No, this time it was the pure 

hatred and disgust she heard in their voices, and saw in their eyes. The sheer depth of their hatred had shocked her, make her run panting down the hall, running from their taunts and mocking laugher.

And now she stumbled down the passage, desperately seeking an empty compartment, a safe place to hide from their hatred. She looked inside each one, but always, they were full of people. Until finally, she ducked into an empty seeming compartment at the very end of the train.

It wasn't until a soft "hello" came from behind her that Hermione realized that the compartment wasn't as empty as she thought it had been. She turned around and found herself face to face with a small boy, who was staring at her over an open book that she recognized as one of the school books.

She took a deep breath. "Err, hi, sorry for bursting in; I'll go now." She turned and walked to the door, hoping that the boy hadn't seen the telltale streaks of tears going down her face. However, it wasn't to be. "Why are you crying?" asked the soft voice from behind her.

If Hermione's parents hadn't been very stern about her manners, Hermione might have used one of the words she had heard from one of the adult movies her parents occasionally watched. As it was, she only felt a moment of raw panic before the soft voice continued. "If you're going to cry, go ahead; I won't mind."

Hermione's panic stopped abruptly; _did he say just what I think he said?_ Suddenly, it was just too much for her, and she sat down on the seat across from the boy. She put her head in her hands, and ignoring the fact that the boy, no matter his kind words and soft voice, was still a complete stranger, she cried.

She wasn't sure exactly how long she cried, but she did know that when she lifted her head and wiped away the remaining tears with the back of her hands, she felt much better. The boy was staring at her, his eyes narrowed a little, as if he was studying a particularly strange creature. She couldn't blame him. After all, she was the one who had stumbled into his compartment and had a crying fit right in front of him. And to think, he didn't even know her name, or she his for that matter. Well, at least that was easy to fix.

She leaned forward and put her hand out. "I'm Hermione Granger". He blinked, losing that somewhat wondering expression, and stared at her hand as if it was a snake. Then, in a movement faster than Hermione had thought possible, a small hand was grasping hers. As they shook, he looked up at her, smiled, and said in his quiet voice "I'm Harry Potter." And Hermione felt her world go a little off kilter.

--

Harry glanced over his book, again. She was still staring at him. Why was she staring so hard at him? Was there something on his face? Did she know what he was? Probably not, since in his experience, any girl would have started screaming and running if he was in the same section of the train; maybe just if he was on the train, if they knew.

So, why then, was she staring at him? His clothing, if a little frayed and big for him, was utterly plain. He was small, but not that small to attract that level of attention. His hair was messy and uneven in places (it is very difficult to give yourself a haircut) but again, not that attention grabbing. Maybe it had something to do with his name? She had reacted very oddly after Harry had told her his name.

To be exact, she had gasped, gone pale, and slumped against her seat. That had reminded him of the time, Dudley, after a successful day of playing in the mud, had been discovered on the living room couch by Aunt Petunia. She had been just as pale as Hermione had been, through that paleness had been more fury than shock.

So, it was most likely something about his name. But, what was it? Harry, as his Aunt had told him, was a very common name, and Potter was the name of a worthless tramp that died in a simple car crash. Maybe, she hadn't told the full truth and his father had been some kind of criminal?

It wasn't much, but Harry thought it was the only possible explanation, the only explanation that made any sort of sense. He opened his mouth, either to ask Hermione why she was staring, or ask her to stop; he wasn't quite sure which. But, first there was a whistle and the train came to a shuddering stop. Instantly, Hermione was up and moving, pushing him in front of her.

Mere moments later, all thoughts of his father were driven out of his mind by a somewhat familiar sight; the giant man he had seen in Gringotts. The man was standing slightly off to the side yelling for all first years to follow him, and Harry, assuming that he was a first year, moved towards him, followed closely by Hermione.

The giant led the crowd of first years down a beaten dirt path, and into view of a gigantic castle. Harry assumed it could only be Hogwarts. But how were they supposed to get to it? From what Harry could see, there was a huge lake in between them and the castle. That all-important question was quickly answered when the giant lifted his lantern enough to show off the small fleet of boats waiting next to a small dock.

After a minor bit of confusion, Harry found himself in a boat with Hermione, the redheaded boy from earlier, and another boy, who was desperately trying to hold on to a toad. Aside from stopping the toad's frequent escape attempts, the other boys didn't pay much attention to either Harry or Hermione, something Harry could completely understand; Hogwarts was just so amazing! Even Hermione seemed a little subdued, which only meant that the flow of information was just a bit jerky at times.

For such small boats, they seemed to move amazedly fast; in no time at all, the fleet was gliding into a cave, where the boats stopped and they got out. They followed the giant up a series of stairs, flight after flight, until they came up into a grassy area that went all the way to the walls of the castle which looked even bigger and more magical up close. In the middle of the wall, at the top of a small flight of stairs was a huge oak door. It was to this door that the giant led them, and after checking if everyone was there, knocked on it. There was a momentary pause, and then the door opened wide. The giant marched in, quickly disappearing in the shadows, and after a moment to gather their collective courage, the first years followed.


	6. A Hat and Four Houses

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter

Chapter 5: A Hat and Four Houses

Once inside, they were greeted by a tall, stern looking witch who Harry thought looked strangely familiar. The giant was nowhere in sight. The witch waited until the last of the first years had trailed through the doors, and the doors to slam shut. Then, with a jerk of her head, and a swish of her robes, she stalked off, the first years stumbling behind her.

As they walked, Harry took the opportunity to appraise their surroundings. They were in a massive hall, the sheer size of which made Harry feel very small and insignificant. Directly across from the entrance was a grand staircase that seemed to go up and up with no end that Harry could see; at least not from this viewpoint. At one end, there was another massive door, through which Harry could hear the dull roar of a considerable number of people. That, Harry realized, as they came closer, was where all the other students must have gone. Instead of leading them into that hall, as Harry had excepted, the woman turned suddenly and led them into a small room a little ways from it.

There, the first years huddled together and stared at the witch, waiting for her next instructions. She didn't seem to be in any hurry, glancing from face to face, first year to first year; almost as if she was searching for something. Finally, after what seemed like hours, she gave up and launched into a speech.

"I am Professor McGonagall. The start of term feast will begin in a minute, but first you will be sorted. "_Sorted?"_ Harry wondered; "_What does she mean by that? And more importantly, how are they going to sort us? _He hoped that, whatever it was, it didn't require much magic; he had studied the books until his eyes were sore, and even done a few of the wand movements described in the books, but he had never actually said the words. He was so distracted by the image this stirred up (himself waving his wand, but nothing happening, while a huge crowd who all had Dudley's face laughed at him) he missed the rest of the Professor's speech and her departure.

The fact that next to him Hermione was going on and on about spells she would need certainly didn't help things. Nor did the fact that a few minutes after Professor McGonagall left, twenty people suddenly streamed into the room right through the wall. Harry, once he had forced the desire to run from the room down, studied them a bit closer. They all seemed a little transparent, and they all 

hovered a little bit above the floor. Abruptly, Harry's gut clenched as he realized what they were: ghosts!

The ghosts seemed to be arguing about something; something about a person named Peeves. A rather fat ghost seemed to be in favor of letting him do something, while a tall, stately looking ghost was insisting that they had let Peeves get away with too much. Neither one nor the other ghosts seemed to notice the first years for a minute. Then, the fat ghost, who appeared to be losing the argument suddenly appeared to notice them. "What are you doing here?"

The stately ghost sighed "Friar, they are no doubt the newest students, and therefore, they are waiting here to be sorted." The Friar's face suddenly sported a welcoming smile, and he floated a little closer. "Well then, I'll hope to see some of you in Hufflepuff; my old house, you know."

Then the door opened again, and Professor McGonagall stepped through. "Move along now; the Sorting is about to start." The first years leaped to obey and the Professor led them out of the room, giving instructions to form into a line as she did so. After a bit of shuffling, Harry found himself behind the redheaded boy and before Hermione. Then they were on the move. Professor McGonagall led them out into the entrance hall again, but this time, she led them into the set of great doors. Inside, it was considerably brighter than in the other hall and Harry blinked a couple times as his eyesight adjusted. Once he could see again, he found that he was walking down the center of an aisle that stood between four tables.

However, it was the fifth table, the one entirely claimed by adults that drew Harry's attention. There, sitting to the right of a turbaned man, was the greasy-haired man that had shouted at him in the ally. With the sight of the man, something clicked, and Harry realized where he had seen Professor McGonagall (and nearly half the adults at the table) before: standing around the man in the Alley.

For a moment, Harry's heart nearly stopped beating; what did they want with him? Before he could do anything else however, Professor McGonagall had stopped next to a stool which held an old, ragged looking hat. Harry stared at it; what did they except the first years to do with it? Pull a rabbit out of it, maybe? The hat apparently had other ideas, because suddenly, a rip opened in one side, and it began to sing.

"_Oh, you may not think I'm pretty,_

_But don't judge on what you see,_

_I'll eat myself if you can find_

_A smarter hat then me._

_You can keep your bowlers black,_

_Your top hats sleek and tall,_

_For I'm the Hogwarts Sorting Hat_

_And I can cap them all._

_There's nothing in your head_

_The Sorting Hat can't see,_

_So try me on and I will tell you_

_Where you ought to be._

_You might belong in Gryffindor,_

_Where dwell the brave at heart,_

_Their daring, nerve, and chivalry_

_Set Gryffindors apart;_

_You might belong in Hufflepuff,_

_Where they are just and loyal,_

_Those patient Hufflepuffs are true_

_And unafraid of toil;_

_Or in wise old Ravenclaw,_

_If you've a ready mind,_

_Where those of wit and learning,_

_Will always find their kind;_

_Or perhaps in Slytherin_

_You'll make your real friends,_

_Those cunning folk use any means_

_To achieve their ends._

_So put me on! Don't be afraid!_

_And don't get in a flap!_

_You're in safe hands (though I have none)_

_For I'm a Thinking Cap!"_

Harry felt himself blink; of all the things he had excepted, a singing hat was not one of them. Then it hit him; he wasn't going to have to do any magic, he wouldn't be laughed out of the school by the surrounding crowd (none of whom looked anything like Dudley). Instead, he just had to put a hat on. But then, that had its own dangers; after all, hadn't the hat said that were no secrets from it? Did that mean it could uncover the darkness and learn what he really was?

He was so deep in his worries and thoughts that he nearly jumped when Professor McGonagall told them to come up and put the hat on when their name was called. Then she raised a long roll of parchment and began to read from it. "Abbot, Hannah!"

A pink-faced girl with pigtails ran out of the line, stumbling a little in her hurry. She reached the stool, climbed up and sat down. Professor McGonagall set the hat on her head; a moment passed, then: "HUFFLEPUFF!"

Hannah got off the stool, beaming like the sun, and ran to the table on the right, which clapped and cheered as she ran; Harry could see the Fat Friar waving. "Bones, Susan." HUFFLEPUFF!" roared the Hat.

"Boot, Terry."

"RAVENCLAW!"

This time, the table second from the left burst out in cheers and clapping. And on it went, name after name, person after person. As each person left the stool to join their tables, Harry's heart sunk a little lower; it wasn't until Hermione was called up and sorted into Gryffindor, and walked to the table on the far left, smiling and waving as she passed by, that Harry felt it rise a little. After that, through, the Sorting flew by; he saw Toad-boy, revealed as Neville Longbottom, get sorted into Gryffindor; he felt a dim shock when the silvery-blond boy he had bumped into in the bookstore answered to the name Draco 

Malfoy and was sorted into Slytherin. Then, (was it his imagination or did Professor McGonagall hesitate for a heartbeat?) "Potter, Harry."

Harry began to walk forward, feeling his heart leap up into his throat. It didn't help that, besides staring, whispers had begun to spring up in every corner of the room. He could hear his name being repeated at every single table, in tones of disbelief, hatred, and … was that awe? Instinctively, he quickened his pace, and was rewarded in that, despite the fact he had been near the end of the line, he reached the stool in record time. He climbed up on it and the last thing he saw before the hat covered his eyes was a hall full of people leaning forwards to get a better look at him.

Then a voice was whispering in Harry's ear. "Hmm, difficult, very difficult; plenty of courage, not a bad mind either; shocking lack of ambition through. Maybe this could explain it…" suddenly, the Hat's voice changed "Merlin, boy! What are you?" _"I don't know" _thought Harry. "You don't know? Well, that's a bit of a conundrum." It began to mumble angrily, and despite the fact that it was speaking directly into his ear, Harry couldn't make out more than a few words, and even those all sounded like nonsense to him.

After a minute, through, it seemed to calm; at least, it stopped mumbling. "Well then, boy, I'm afraid that I don't know what to do about that thorny little problem, except for recommending that you talk to Dumbledore soon. He should be able to help you, or least find out what you are."

"_You won't tell will you?" _"I'm the Sorting Hat, boy; I don't tell people's secrets, I just sort them. Now, let's get back to business. I don't think you'll do well in Slytherin or Ravenclaw, with that secret; Slytherins wouldn't rest until they found out what you were hiding, and Ravenclaws need to know everything, other's business or not. You're better off with: GRYFFINDOR!

Harry pulled off the hat, and began to walk (rather unsteadily) towards the Gryffindor table, which appeared to be … chanting his name? Well, the end of it, at least. But, why were they doing it? He was a nobody, the son of a worthless lay-about and a no-good mother, and a monster to boot (through he hoped that they would never know about the last). He sat down next to Hermione, who smiled at him, and waited for the cheering to die down. Finally, they seemed to tire, and the sorting continued.

Now, however, the Sorting seemed to be almost over; there were only four people left. And they seemed to be hurried through, as if the Hat was anxious to be finished. At any rate, the Gryffindor 

table gained two more housemates: a black boy named Dean Thomas and the redheaded boy (now revealed as Ronald Weasley). Then it was over, and Professor McGonagall was rolling the scroll up and putting it and the Hat's stool away.

Then the elderly man at the center of the head table was standing up (Harry assumed he must be Headmaster Dumbledore) and beginning to speak. "Welcome, to both new and old students; welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin the feast, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak! Thank you!"

Harry felt his eyes go wider, if possible; surely they wouldn't let a crazy person run a school? Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw something move on the table top. He turned to it …and found himself facing an array of the best-looking dishes he had ever seen in his life. His mouth watered, and his stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn't had anything to eat since this morning.

He leaned forward, and began putting stuff onto his plate. On either side, and in front of him, he could see people doing the same. For the next several minutes, the only sounds in the hall were the clatter of silverware, and the dull buzz of several dozen conversations going on at once. Once his immediate needs had been taken of, Harry chanced a glance towards the head table. The greasy-headed man was staring in his direction, or at least at the Gryffindor table. Their eyes met, and Harry found himself unable to look away from that glaze. Finally, the man seemed to lose interest and his gaze released Harry as he bent over his food. Harry forced back the urge to sigh in relief and allowed his gaze to run over the head table again. He had been wrong before; more than half of the faces he thought he recognized from the alley. The only person that didn't look familiar in any way was the turbaned man sitting next to Greasy-head. As if thinking about him had been a signal, the man lifted his gaze, and for the second time in as many minutes, Harry was unable to look away. However, unlike Greasy-head, who had just studied Harry with a look that might have suited something he was uncertain about, this gaze was filled with a hatred so raw that it was all Harry could do not to cower on the spot. Suddenly, his scar burned, and Harry pressed one hand against it, using it as an excuse to break eye contact. When the pain faded, Harry glanced up again, but the man was back to staring at his dinner plate and didn't look up again.

Then the Headmaster was standing up, and the deserts disappeared (Ronald Weasley groaned loudly at this). "Now that we are all fed and watered, I have a few announcements to make. First, I would like to warn all first-years, as well as a few of our older students (here his gaze flickered to the Weasley twins, who did a marvelous job of looking innocent) that the Forbidden Forest is strictly out of bounds. Also, Mr. Filch has asked me to remind you that there will be no magic in the corridors. Thirdly, 

Quidditch trials will be held in the second week of the term; anyone interested in playing on their house teams should contact Madam Hooch (he gestured towards a woman who looked strangely like a hawk, compete with yellow eyes). Finally, I must warn you that the third floor corridor is strictly out of bounds to those who do not wish to die a most painful death."

Harry felt himself gulp; Hogwarts suddenly seemed a lot less safer than he had thought it would be. But Dumbledore was speaking again "And with that, off to bed."

Harry felt himself yawn, and suddenly remembered just how late he stayed up last night; he had been too excited to sleep much. And now all that missed sleep was beginning to make itself felt. He got up from the table and fell into the line of yawning first years, which began to follow Ron's brother out of the hall. They went up the stairs, and the prefect (as Hermione said he was called) told them to watch the stairs; they liked to change. Harry felt disbelief well up in him but felt it drain when, a couple floors above them, a stair slowly shifted to point in a another direction. Then they were moving again, splitting from the Ravenclaws, who followed a staircase leading down. Up and up they went, until Harry realized they could only be in one of the towers. Just he realized that, the prefect lead them out of the staircase, and into a hall. At the end of the hall was a giant painting; it had to be big to contain its resident. The resident was the biggest woman Harry had ever seen, including even Aunt Marge, who had held the previous record.

She stood facing them, cool brown eyes flickering from person to person, for a moment before her eyes flickered to the prefect in front of them. "Password?" Ron's brother answered without a flicker of hesitation. "Caput Draconis." The woman bowed her head, and her painting swung to the side, revealing a massive, yet comfortable looking room. Even as the first-years moved forward, suddenly anxious to retreat into the embrace of sleep, the other prefect turned towards them. "You lot will want to remember that; it's the password to the common room and you won't be able to get into it without the password." Harry nodded as he moved past, and even repeated the password to himself a couple times, but otherwise didn't pay attention to her; he was too busy taking the common room in.

The room was painted with a solidly red and gold combination; no other colors were in the room. Harry assumed because of that, and the red-gold colors on the older Gryffindor's badges (and his own, which had been blank before he was sorted) that they were the Gryffindor colors. Above the mantle-piece of the room's only fire was a lion statue. It wasn't roaring, as Harry thought it might have, judging by the rearing lion on their badges. Instead, it merely watched, legs gathered under it as if it was ready to pounce, and Harry knew, in the same way that he knew his own name, that if someone who didn't belong here entered, it would pounce; what happened afterwards would depend on whether the 

intruder really was a enemy. Otherwise, the room looked quite normal, and very comfortable. It was littered with a number of chairs and couches, red of course, all of which were padded with cushions, and small enough to not make the room seem overly crowded.

Harry paid it little attention for the moment; he would have plenty of time to really get to know it, and sleep was calling. He followed Ron up a staircase on one side of the room, waving goodbye to Hermione as he did so; she was going up a staircase on the other side of the room. In under a minute, they were entering into a room near the end of the staircase that contained five of the most comfortable beds Harry had ever seen, as well as their trunks. Harry moved over to his bed, (or least, since it had his trunk next to it, he assumed it was his) and opened the trunk, noticing the other boys do the same out of the corner of his eye. Almost as one, they pulled on their pajamas, climbed into their beds, and after a sleepy round of good-nights, fell asleep.

--

The song of the Sorting hat is taken directly from the Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone c.1996 by J.K. Rowling


	7. Chapter 6: Teachers, Classes, and a Polt

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.

Chapter 6: Teachers, Classes, and a Poltergeist

Hogwarts, Harry discovered the following day, was a very strange magical place.

There were the stairs: they were constantly changing, some occasionally disappeared, according to the older students, and quite a few of them had trick stairs that you had to jump (Neville got stuck twice just on the way back to the Great Hall). And then there were the portraits; they covered every wall in the staircases, and along every hallway that Harry had visited so far. Besides moving, they talked (he supposed that he shouldn't have been that surprised; it was the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry).

Breakfast was as delicious as dinner had been, and somehow, Harry knew that he wouldn't ever get tired of it. The table was absolutely loaded with food, from strips of bacon (perfectly cooked) to waffles, to scones, and biscuits. It was the most fulfilling breakfast he had ever had.

After breakfast however, Harry was quickly reminded that this was a school: Professor McGonagall swept down from the head table handing out schedules; he had Transfiguration first, followed by History of Magic and Charms, then a break for lunch and after that, Potions and Defense against the Dark Arts. Harry gulped; this list suddenly seemed very intimidating.

It didn't seem to affect Hermione in the same way; she was off her seat, smiling so wide that Harry thought her head might split in two and from the way she was bouncing up and down on her feet, if the hall hadn't been so crowded, she would have been jumping up and down.

"Come on, Harry, if we hurry we might be able to review a little before class!" And so, Harry found himself being dragged through the halls at a breakneck speed. As they ran, he noted everyone was staring… and whispering; were two running first-years really that uncommon? Then they passed by a group of older boys; maybe fifteen or so, and Hufflepuffs by their badges, and he managed to hear their whispers; they were talking about him, and… his scar? Now that he was paying attention, he noticed everyone that they passed all seemed to have something to say about him.

"There, look."

"Where?"

"Next to the girl with all the bushy hair."

"Wearing the glasses?"

"But he's so small!"(Harry barely managed not to grind his teeth at that whisper.)

"Did you see his scar?"

Harry stopped for a moment and glanced back, causing Hermione to tut impatiently and tug at his sleeve. But, he was too late, and the whisperer had disappeared into the swarm of students in the hall. He shrugged and continued along behind Hermione, thoughts awhirl. What was so important about a scar gained from a car crash? Yes, it probably looked quite cool, but it wasn't that interesting, to make all this fuss. Suddenly, a voice seemed to well up from inside him _"__I find it very curious indeed that you should destined for this wand, when its brother gave you your scar." _Harry shivered at the memory, and pushed the thought down; he knew where his scar came from, and it certainly wasn't from any magic incident; Aunt had told him it was from a car crash. But then, when she had told him, Harry had noticed a flicker of some emotion that he hadn't been able to identify; many people wouldn't have even noticed the flicker, but Harry, who had lots of experience in watching his Uncle for the slightest sign of his quick temper, (not that the signs were hard to see) had seen it. Only now, however did it make any sense; had she lied to him? It certainly wouldn't be the first time.

But, then Hermione turned aside and led him into a semi-large classroom; they had apparently arrived at their first class. As if in confirmation, Professor McGonagall swept into the room and gave them a nod as she passed. She sat down behind the adult-sized desk at the head of the room, and began to study a number of papers that were scattered over the desk; presumably, they were her lesson plans for the class.

A few minutes later, which had been passed in quiet study, the door opened again, and other students began to trickle into the classroom. Professor McGonagall waited for a few more minutes, until the trickle of students slowed and stopped. Then she rose from behind her desk and began to speak.

"While in this classroom, I will expect you to follow my instructions very carefully. If misused, Transfiguration can be a very dangerous form of magic. Therefore, anyone I catch fooling around in this classroom will leave and not come back."

With that, she turned around, and with a flick of her wand, turned her desk (complete with papers) into the largest pig Harry had ever seen (not that he saw many pigs anyway). Then, with another flick, before the pig could make a dash for it, or even squeal, it was a desk again.

"Today, you will be changing matches into needles, but first, we will go over the basics of Transfiguration. To begin with…"

She went into a complex discussion of the ins and outs of the basics, most of which Harry understood, and the rest he might if he could think about it for a moment. He took notes anyway; it was very complex, for the basics and it would be wise to have something to fall back on if he forgot something. Next to him, Hermione was doing the same. The rest of the class however, appeared to be much less diligent; at least, they weren't taking very many notes.

Sometime later, the Professor stopped speaking, and gave out matches. Harry glanced at his notes, and flicked his wand the way they said he should. Almost immediately afterwards, the match flickered and part of it turned silver; he flicked again, and more of it turned sliver. A final flick and it was completely silver and shaped like a needle. He glanced around; Hermione had likewise finished, but the rest of the class seemed to be having a lot of difficultly with their matches; not one was silver.

McGonagall, who had retired to her desk after handing out the matches, got up and began moving amongst the desks. Some of the students flinched as she drew closer, but she merely glided past, showing little reaction to the failed spells. When she reached Harry's and Hermione's table, however, surprise shot across her face for a moment; apparently, actual success was rare in this first lesson, at least. Then surprise was gone, and she gave them both a grave nod of approval.

The next class, however, was nowhere as interesting. The teacher was a ghost, who reminded Harry of a speaker who had come to his primary school once. He was a dried-up shell of a man, who had bored the entire school within the space of an hour. Professor Binns, however, was worse. He hovered in front of the class, giving a (from what Harry could tell) a well-formatted and organized, but dull as dish-water speech on the early history of wizardkind. Fortunately, one of Uncle's favorite things to do had been giving Harry long, boring speeches on how on how freakish he was. Then he would have Harry repeat the gist of the speech back to him. The consequences if Harry failed to pay attention or couldn't repeat the lecture had been … severe.

Even so, Hermione kept on having to nudge him every couple of minutes to keep him on track. Even so, he thought that he was doing better than any of the other students; they were all either staring at the Professor with a glazed look that said nobody's home or dozing on their desks (Ron and Dean were playing Hangman).

Finally, it was over, and they went out into and made their way to the next class (there seemed to be even more people than before who wanted to stare at Harry). The next class, while loads better than History of Magic, was fairly unexciting. Save for the Professor nearly falling off his desk when he called Harry's name, nothing at happened. They didn't even do any magic. Instead of spells, Professor Flitwick taught them a bit of theory; save for a few wand movements, they didn't even use their wands.

Next, they returned to the Great Hall, where they had a delicious lunch and then made their way down to the dungeons.

The dungeons were just as he had thought; that is to say, dark, more mazelike than the rest of the castle put together, and not a little creepy. The classroom seemed to only deepen that image, as if the designer had wanted to make this area as intimidating as possible.

It certainly fit the teacher, who stormed in after a couple of minutes, looking immensely like some previously undiscovered kind of giant bat, only far more terrifying. It was Greasy-hair, or if what Percy had told him at lunch was correct, Professor Snape, Potions Master.

Professor Snape, unlike Professors McGonagall, Flitwick, and Binns, was neither stern, friendly, nor boring; instead, he seemed to be very angry at something, unless that scowl (easily surpassing even Aunt Petunia on a bad day) was his permanent expression. And that, considering his entrance and choice of classroom, seemed very likely.

He, however, like Professor McGonagall, seemed to believe in the value of a starting speech. He also took roll, which none of the professors save Flitwick had done, and for some reason, on Harry's name, his lips curved into a sneer that made Harry's heart plummet.

"Potter!" said Snape, whirling towards Harry, scowl firmly in place, "What would I get I added powered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

Suddenly thankful that Hermione had insisted they review the potions textbook at lunch, Harry racked his brain and came up with the answer; "The Draught of Living Death, sir."

The Professor's face suddenly flickered, as if he had been caught off guard, but next moment the scowl was back, bigger than ever, and he continued if nothing had happened. "Potter, where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?"

This question was a bit more difficult, but Harry, after a moment's thought, remembered a part that sounded a little disgusting from the textbook; "In the stomach of a goat, sir."

This time, there was no flicker, but the scowl did widen a bit; what was he doing wrong? "What is the difference, Potter, between monkshood and wolfsbane?"

Harry fought back a smile (It probably wouldn't be the best of ideas, with the look on Snape's face); he knew this one. He remembered wondering why they hadn't bothered to just name it one thing. "They're the same plant, sir; also known as aconite, sir."

Instantly, Snape's face went black with barely suppressed rage, and he stood there for a moment, before, sounding like it was beginning dragged out of him, said, "Correct."

As Snape swept away, Harry slumped a little in his chair, and had to push down a sigh of relief. That was a very nerve-racking experience; Snape was one of those people who possessed the ability to unnerve you with one stare; the fact that he was very hostile towards Harry didn't help at all.

After that, through, class was somewhat uneventful; well at least for Harry and Hermione; about halfway through, Ron and Neville's cauldron melted, and Snape swooped down on them, giving them a barrage of insults and recriminations that made Harry wince (Snape seemed to be glad to have someone to vent on) before sending them off to the hospital wing. Also, during the whole lesson, he stalked around the room, insulting potions and the student's methods of handling the ingredients. He did this to everyone, except for Draco Malfoy, who he seemed to like for some reason, and Harry and Hermione, whose table he stopped by shortly after the explosion, stared at their potion for a minute, and then turned away, without a word to them. But, before he turned, Harry thought he saw the smallest glimmer of approval in the Professor's eyes.

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Severus Snape watched the students stream out of the classroom, feeling the first of his many plans falling to pieces. He had known that the brat would come to Hogwarts; his name had been written down from birth, after all. He had hoped, when the brat ran away and disappeared, that he wouldn't have to deal with a clone of bloody James Potter, but his hopes had been crushed when his letter had been sent out and he had seen the boy in the Alley.

Over the years, he had developed a plan to deal with the boy; a plan based on the assumption that, like his father, the boy would be nothing more than an average potions maker. Now, of course, that part of the plan lay in ruins; there were other parts, of course, but that had been the center point.

At first, when the brat had passed his quiz, he had assumed that the boy merely had the luck to befriend the year's know-it-all (there was usually at least one in every year, though they mainly got sorted into Ravenclaw, not Gryffindor).

That notion had gotten shot out of the air as soon as he had seen the brat mix the potion for the day; unlike Granger, who shot looks at her book for every step, the boy had barely seemed to need the book. His handling of the ingredients was a bit awkward, true, but that was to be excepted, and with a little time and practice, that would fade. Severus had only seen such sheer potential in all his life in two persons; himself and Lily Evans.

With the proper training, he could become one of the best; one of those few beings that could really understand the subtle art of potions. It would mean of course, that he wouldn't be able to take as much of his ire on the brat as he had originally planned. Or, perhaps he could take his long-delayed revenge on James Potter down another path. With a little work on his part, he could get the brat to follow his mother's path; that of the academic rather than becoming the arrogant, bullying prankster his father had been. Oh, sure James Potter had been talented; but he had preferred to use that talent for rule-breaking and an occasional burst of bullying. Lily, on the other hand, chose to focus her efforts on exploring magic, on perfecting the most difficult branches of magic, with the end result of becoming one of the best students of their year; even when she had begun to be attracted to bloody James Potter.

The new plan wouldn't be as immediately satisfying as the first had been; for that matter, it wouldn't even give as near as much satisfaction as the first plan would have. But, with the core of that plan lying in ruins, it was the best plan he had. And besides, if all went as planned, he would finally have someone to talk to about advanced potions research, without the bother of having to stop and explain in plain English.

As the first students for the next class (second-year Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs) ran into the classroom, the front runners stopped in their tracks in shock, causing a minor traffic jam. As it settled, a Hufflepuff boy asked a nearby Ravenclaw, in a sort of trembling whisper, "Is it a good thing that he's smiling?"

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The D.A.D.A. class wasn't anything like what Harry had expected: instead of the terrifying man he had seen at the teacher's table that night, Professor Quirrell seemed to be a stuttering coward of a man; he was afraid of everything in the classroom, from the curses he was supposed to teach, to Neville, who looked almost as frightened.

However, Harry wasn't completely convinced; he remembered that terrible gaze from the Sorting feast too well to believe that it had been a trick of the light or a fault of his memory. Also, the Professor's stutter and scared face seemed a little too perfect; as if he was an actor putting too much effort into a role.

Other then the fact that Harry strongly suspected Quirrell had it in for him, it was a good class. Despite his stutter (false or not) and his obvious fear, he seemed to at least know what he was doing. The stutter made it a bit hard to keep notes, but Harry was reasonably sure that he kept decent ones at least.

Still, despite the fact he was at least a somewhat skilled teacher, Harry found it quite nerve-wracking to be in the same room with him. So, he was quite glad when the class was finally let out.

Later, after a trip to the library, Harry decided to go exploring. He said good-bye to Hermione, who barely looked up from her book, and wandered off into the massive castle. In no time at all, due perhaps to the fact that he didn't pay any attention to where he was going, he was very, very lost.

Had anyone been around, even a ghost, Harry would have asked them, but they were nowhere to be seen. There wasn't even a painting around.

However, there was, now that he was listening, a sort of a mumbling whisper coming from around a nearby corner. He walked towards the sound, listening carefully.

"Put this there, and this here, and Peevesy has a," the mumbling stopped as Harry came around the corner, and the person whirled around to look at him.

There was a moment of pure silence, which Harry used to study the person. He was a small man, only a little bigger than Harry himself. Behind him, leaning against the wall, was a rather unflattering picture of the castle caretaker and his cat.

Harry however, promptly forgot the picture in favor of the man's face; he recognized the emotion on the other person's face: he had felt that particular feeling too many times on his own face. It was pure, undiluted fear. And Harry couldn't see any reason why the man was afraid of him.

"Sorry, Your Bloodiness, Peeves didn't see you there…," The man's eyes which had been wide and unfocused, suddenly narrowed, "You aren't His Bloodiness; you're just a firstie. But you feel like him, all dark and deadly. What are you, firstie? Are you a Dark One? His Bloodiness told Peeves all about them."

Harry swallowed; he was a Dark One? And who was His Bloodiness that Peeves was talking about? And for that matter, why was he talking in third person? "Who's His Bloodiness?"

Peeves seemed to tense up for a monument before answering, "You don't know His Bloodiness? Peeves thought everyone knew His Bloodiness. But then, you're a fristie, and firsties never know anything. You might call him the Bloody Baron."

Harry froze, thinking back; where had he heard that name before? Then he got it; shortly before the feast ended, Percy had pointed out a few of the castle ghosts; one of the ghosts he had pointed at, a gaunt, staring ghost with blood running freely down his chest had been pointed out as the Bloody Baron. Percy had been very clear about telling them to stay out of his way.

But, if Peeves was telling the truth, the Baron might know what he was, or at least have some idea about it. But first, "What did he tell you about Dark Ones?"

Peeves crackled (a little nervously), "Not much, Dark One, His Bloodiness only mentioned them once, said Peeves should be glad that a Dark One isn't in charge of Peeves; got less patience then His Bloodiness, and no sense of humor, Dark Ones."

Harry fought down a sigh; he always had thought his alternate form had a bad reputation: now, he had proof. Unreliable proof to be sure; Peeves could be mistaken or Dark Ones could be something entirely different. But, that didn't seem likely.

"Two things then, Peeves; First, which way to the library, and second, don't tell anyone about this, got it?"

Peeves began backing away, nodding frantically, "Peeves won't tell, Dark One, Peeves swears it! And Dark One, the library is that way; take two lefts, and go down one floor." Harry waved a dismissal at him, and Peeves turned around and shot down the corridor at such a speed that a nearby wall hanging rose off the wall for a couple of seconds.

Harry turned in the other direction, thoughts ablaze. Thanks to Peeves, he now had a name for himself. It probably wasn't the real name, through; it sounded too much like some sort of nickname. But, it was a name, and now he had more than a picture to go on.

In a few minutes, he was back in the library. Hermione, through she hadn't moved, had apparently somehow managed to make a large dent in the giant pile of books surrounding her. Harry moved to sit on the other side, glancing around him at the long rows of books about them. Surely, somewhere in this storehouse of information there would be something on him.


	8. Fame and Flying

Chapter 7: Fame and Flying

As was rapidly was becoming their custom, Harry and Hermione spent most of their time in the library. Despite the amount of time they spent together, and their rapidly growing friendship, Harry was able to keep Hermione from guessing what he was searching or even knowing the fact that he was searching.

It wasn't hard, but nor was it easy. First, Hermione was all but buried in books (sometimes literally) and while she was reading, she paid little attention to the world outside her books. Secondly, the teachers, especially Professor Snape, gave out mountain loads of schoolwork, making Harry collect a pile of books that at times almost matched one of Hermione's smaller book piles. With that hefty amount, it was easy to hide the few books that had nothing to do with the subjects he was supposed to be studying.

On the other hand, Hermione was a bit nosy and bossy, with a sometimes irritating eye for the smallest details, which made hiding anything from her very difficult. It didn't help at all that the books he was checking for information on his darker side either very obviously had nothing to with any of his subjects or were very far from any of the areas they were covering in class. And furthermore, while he liked to read, he would never be able to match Hermione's skill at researching.

So, quite a few times Harry found himself staying up in his bed, with the curtains closed, studying the latest book from the library. However, his first discovery in fact was in one of the books he was studying for class, and had nothing to do with his late night studies.

He had, in fact been in the library, studying one of the books Binns had suggested that they use for the homework, when a wind from a passing, frazzled looking fifth year had turned the pages a bit too far. He had been about to turn them back when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a very familiar name: his own.

For a moment, he just stared, thinking in some far-off part of his mind, that this would definitely explain all the staring and whispering that he had been going through. Then the idea really sunk in: he was famous! How was he supposed to keep his secret safe now, if everyone at this school and elsewhere in the wizarding world knew who he was? Had he been a nobody, like he had thought at first, it could have been possible to perhaps keep his dangerous secret covered the whole time he was here.

But now, with probably dozens of eyes watching his every move, it probably won't be long at all before the whole world knew about it. And, if matters couldn't be any worse, he had gotten that fame in one of the worse ways possible, at least in his imagination: he had somehow, as a helpless infant, managed to destroy an exceptionally powerful wizard and survive some sort of curse that was all but guaranteed to kill on the spot; no exceptions or blocks of any sort.

Which meant, not only was he a sort of freak, even in the wizarding world, but You-Know-Who's (no matter how hard he searched, he couldn't find anything that looked like the real name) follower's would be, without a doubt, be very displeased with him. And judging by the book, that was a very bad thing. Heck, with his luck, he wouldn't be surprised if You-Know-Who had somehow managed to survive the curse, same as Harry himself, and even now was plotting his revenge.

All taken together, it certainly wasn't very reassuring. On the other hand, it might begin to explain why Professor Quirrell had it in for him, and was pretending to be such a coward.

And it would probably explain Hermione's strange reaction back on the train… wait a moment!

Suddenly, he was angry: she had known all this time and she hadn't told him! _"Maybe she thought you knew about it", _a small voice seemed to whisper inside him. Harry ignored it; he was too angry to stop and think about it.

He slammed the book down, earning himself a hiss from the direction of the librarian, and a distracted glare from Hermione, which turned into a confused look when she saw the look on his face. She opened her mouth, probably to ask what was wrong, but Harry cut her off before she could say a word.

"How long have you known about this?" he asked, pointing at the still open book. _"How long?" _Hermione glanced down at the book, and looked up again, still looking confused.

"Err, I've known about you being famous since I first came into the magical world, but I didn't mention it because I wasn't sure how you felt about being famous; I mean, I know I wouldn't like it if people started fawning over me just because I was famous..." She trailed off, her face shifting from confused to a hurt look that made Harry falter for a moment. "You thought I was just being friends with you because of your fame, didn't you?"

Feeling very ashamed of himself, Harry nodded. Across the table, Hermione's eyes narrowed, and a hint of anger was in her voice when she continued. "Do you really know so little of me that you think that I would do that?"

Harry shook his head; she was right that she wasn't that kind of person to seek to bask in the glory of others. "Hermione, I'm sorry, but I just found out about it and…" there wasn't any need to continue; through she looked very surprised, Hermione was nodding in understanding.

"You mean no one ever told you?" Harry shook his head. "Aunt just always told me my parents died in a car crash; I didn't know any different until five minutes ago, and I just thought…"

"Well, she certainly lied to you; I don't think wizards even use cars. And besides, if they did, they wouldn't die in a car crash. I mean, they had all sorts of spells that they could use to avoid one."

Harry sighed and put his head down on the table, while Hermione continued to babble on about the likelihood of a witch or wizard getting into a car crash. Some minutes later, when she stopped talking, Harry glanced up to find that Hermione had open another of her books, apparently having forgotten all about their argument. Harry assumed that this meant he was forgiven. He pulled the book towards him, and reopened it to the page he had been reading. After all, that essay Binns had assigned wasn't going to write itself, was it?

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A week later, someone, presumably a perfect or perhaps Professor McGonagall, put a notice on the Gryffindor notice board. It wasn't a big message, or even interesting to look at, but just the same, it drove all of the first-year boys into fits of excitement from what Harry saw, and Hermione told him, the girls into the same, if to a lesser degree. The notice simply said that the first-years were to meet on the Quidditch pitch for their first flying lessons.

Harry was of two minds about it. On one side, some deeper part of him yearned for the freedom and release that flying might be able to provide. Studies and books were all very well, according to that side, but to soar unaided in the air would be the greatest gift of all.

On the other hand, Harry, after a number of close calls with lightning back home, had learned to avoid high places. To go flying would go completely against that by-now deeply-ingrained instinct. And furthermore, just the idea of getting on a broom and trusting it to be able to carry all of his weight (slight as it was) high into the air without giving out made Harry feel very nervous and a little green to boot. And despite all Hermione's assurances that the brooms wouldn't give out under him, Harry couldn't get rid of the image of a broom suddenly stop working at a very great height.

And so, when the time came, Harry found himself quite pale and shaking. Fortunately, he wasn't the only one who seemed to have devolved a case of the jitters. Dean and Neville also seemed overly nervous, which in Neville's case seemed a little odd, since he was pureblooded and therefore should have at least some experience with brooms (but then, Neville was very clumsy, which might explain it). Also, some part of Hermione appeared to have convinced the rest that talking and reading about it was very different from actually doing it, so she was as pale-faced as the rest of them.

The rest of the Gryffindor boys, at least, through maybe a little anxious, didn't seem to be too concerned about it; Ron in particular kept on telling stories about adventures he had on a broom (most of which involved barely escaping from Muggles in helicopters) and Seamus was hardly any better.

All of this, of course didn't help one bit, and Harry was very glad when Hermione (apparently, nervousness made her snappy) snapped, and told Ron and Seamus to shut up before she used every single last hex she had learned so far on them (and she knew quite a lot). Needless to say, they shut up.

When the day finally came, Harry and Hermione, along with the rest of the first-year Gryffindors, made their way down to a small courtyard, where they found Madame Hooch, along with the Slytherins, who were standing next to their brooms. Madame Hooch, once they had all taken a place next to a broom, told them to stretch their hands over the brooms, and say, "Up"!

Harry did so, and was rewarded (and not a little surprised) when the broom shot up into his hand, where some forgotten reflex made his hand close before the broom could drop back down. Feeling a sense of accomplishment, Harry looked up from the broom, to discover that it was an accomplishment, and, judging by the amount of success, it wasn't a small one either.

On the other side of the small space separating the two groups, the Slytherins weren't having much luck; of all of them, only Draco Malfoy was holding his broom; the rest were still yelling "UP" at their brooms, with varying amounts of success.

On the other side, the Gryffindors weren't doing any better. Down the lane, Ron's broom rose, too quickly for the redhead, and smacked him on the face (Harry had to cover his mouth to stop himself from laughing). On his other side, Hermione's broom, instead of making any moves into the air, was just rolling around on the ground. Farther down, Neville was having even worse luck; his broom hadn't even moved at all.

Madame Hooch, however, didn't seem surprised or disappointed at all by this; Harry assumed that most of her students must react like this. Instead, she merely glided among the first years, giving out bits of advice (Draco Malfoy looked particularly displeased when she told him that his grip was wrong). As for Harry himself, she merely stopped and looked him over for a second, with no sign of surprise in those hawk like eyes. Then she nodded at him, and swept past him to tell Hermione to put some feel into her tries.

Sometime later, when they all had their brooms in their hands (Neville took forever to get his up, even with Madame Hooch walking him through the process), Hooch told them mount their brooms, and then, on her whistle, to push off, hover for a monument, and then come down.

However, Neville who had either been too nervous to listen, or simply wanted to get it over with, started before Hooch even began to lift the whistle. Once up, he must have discovered that he had no idea of how to hover, let alone land, because his already pale face went even whiter then usual.

Fortunately, (or perhaps unfortunately) Madame Hooch was somewhat aware of the fact that as far as brooms went, Neville was a complete and total disaster. "Mr. Longbottom," she roared, "Come down this instant!" Unluckily, hearing his teacher's voice did the wrong thing to Neville; he panicked and leaned forward. The broom began to move forward, gathering speed as it went.

Neville, in an attempt to get closer to the ground, or end the unplanned ride by simply falling off, (of which Harry wasn't certain) leaned forward even more. The broom shot forward, then straight up into the air, hung in the air for a moment, then flipped over and rocketed towards the ground, thirty feet below.

Seconds before the broom hit, it, in an impressive defiance of gravity, turned a foot above the ground and shot horizontally along the ground. Neville, who had been plastered against the broom by the force of the spinning, gave it the appearance of a small, black missile. A missile that was currently headed directly towards Madame Hooch and the group of first-years behind her.

Hooch drew her wand, but whatever she had been planning to do, she evidently didn't have enough time, because she threw herself to one side as the crazed broom shot through where she had be standing.

The first years, of course, didn't have such reflexes, but they did have the advantage of a few precious moments more than Madame Hooch had possessed, and reacted accordingly. As to say, they fell all over themselves trying to get out of the way. They almost didn't make it; Harry could have sworn that he felt something hit him as Neville shot past.

But, then he was past, and heading right for a nearby, very thick wall. Like before, however, the broom changed direction and headed up the wall, right past a rather grim looking statue with a sword outstretched. Neville, unluckily, wasn't as fortune this time; as he passed the statue, his cloak caught on the sword blade.

For a frozen moment, he just hung there, and Harry thought everything would work out, but then there was a terrible ripping sound. Neville's cloak, already weakened by stopping Neville flying into the sky, was giving way. Seconds later, Neville fell ten feet before something caught for a moment, but there was another ripping sound, and he fell another ten feet, landing with a loud thump kind of sound.

For a moment, the first years stared, wondering, and there was a moan, and Madame Hooch was pushing past to lean over Neville. She made a clicking noise as she looked him over, and Neville gave another moan (apparently, he wasn't one to deny his pain) as she felt at his arm. From where he was standing, Harry heard Hooch say, "You've only got a broken wrist, boyo. With that kind of fall, you should be very grateful that you didn't get anything worse."

She helped him stand, and in a louder voice, said, "None of you are to move while I take this boy to the hospital wing! I see a single broom in the air, and the one riding it will be out of Hogwarts before you can say 'Quidditch'!" Then she was helping Neville hobble off, and in a moment, they were gone.

From behind Harry, and a little to his right, there was a sudden outburst of laughter from the Slytherins. He whirled around, to see Draco Malfoy chuckling away, obviously unconcerned about Neville's injury and apparently, very amused about it.

"Did you see his face, the great lump?" Malfoy chuckled, as the other Slytherins joined in. Well, most of them, anyway; Daphne Greengrass just looked on, no trace of any sort of emotion on her face, and Theodore Nott was pale and clutching his own wrist in a way that suggested he knew quite well what a broken wrist felt like.

Well, Harry decided, if Malfoy didn't shut pretty quickly, he would know how it felt too. Luckily, as Harry concluded later, Parvati Patil spoke up first. "Oh, shut it, Malfoy."

Malfoy, however did no such thing; he said (with a very big sneer) "Why should I? He's just a big lump. In fact, he's such a lump, that he forgot that this is ours."

As he spoke, Malfoy lifted his hand, and in it something flashed in the light of the sun; it was Neville's Remembrall.

Harry walked forward, struggling deep with himself not to grab it forcibly from Malfoy; the action would probably end with Malfoy seriously injured, and the ball broken. "Give it here, Malfoy."

Malfoy spun, and a nasty smile worked its way onto his face. "No, I think that I'll leave it somewhere for Longbottom to find-how about- up a tree?" With that, he grabbed a broom and was up in the air. Despite his incorrect grip, it was evident that Malfoy was in fact, talented. And as he hovered in the air, at about the height of a good sized oak tree, he yelled down one final taunt, "What's wrong, Potter; bit out of your reach?"

That, in Harry's opinion, was a big mistake. He grabbed his broom, and mounted, ignoring Hermione's warnings, and shot up into the air. As he did, the part of him that had been waiting eagerly to fly roared in joy and in triumph. Harry narrowly avoided yelling himself, for he found that at last, something he was good at; no, something that he excelled at!

Malfoy, on the other hand, looked most displeased: evidently, he hadn't been expecting anyone to have the skill to equal him, let alone surpass him. Harry hovered a little closer, and said, "None of your friends to help you up here, Malfoy."

Draco must have been thinking along the same lines, because he snarled and said, "If you want it so bad, go catch it!" and threw it, hard, towards the castle. Harry spun, and zoomed after it. He leaned down, so that his face was nearly touching the broom, and locked his gaze on the hurtling ball. He was gaining; no doubt about it, but the castle wall was coming up fast. It was so close through; he felt that he could just reach it, but his arms were too short, and there simply wasn't enough time or space to move close enough. With a sinking heart, Harry prepared to lean back and give up… Neville would never forgive him for it.

Suddenly, there was a crawling sensation underneath his shirt, as if a giant bug was crawling on him, and something long and black shot out, and with blinding speed, wrapped around the Remembrall. Then, with equal speed it came back, depositing the ball in Harry's hand as it passed by, and retracted into his shirt.

Harry barely had time to realize what had just happened, before he was pulling to a stop, just a foot away from the wall. He hovered for there, for just an instant, waiting for the screams to start, but none came. He turned, and saw, instead looking at him in horror, they were staring because of awe. And in a flash, he knew what had happened; since he had been going so fast (and wearing black) the oddity had been missed entirely. Relief welled up in him, as he landed, and the small crowd of first-years swarmed forward, differences forgotten for the moment.

Relief that was soon interrupted by what Harry felt was the loudest shout he had ever heard in his (admittedly short) life. "HARRY POTTER!" Feeling his heart sink for the second time in as many minutes, Harry turned, and saw Professor McGonagall, looking as if she wanted his head for her mantelpiece, striding towards them.

"Never, in all my years…" she stopped, fury apparently crowding out words for a few moments then, in a voice that should have painted the courtyard walls with ice, "Come with me, Mr. Potter."

" Professor, it wasn't his fault," began Hermione, but the Professor cut her off with a wordless jerk of her neck. Then she was marching off, Harry stumbling along.

He was going to get expelled, he just knew it; they were going to make him pack his bags, and leave, possibly without even letting him say goodbye. After, for the first time, gaining a friend of his own, he was going to banished back to Storm Island. That rather depressing line of thought zipped out of his mind, however, when Professor McGonagall stopped and pushed open a door.

She poked her head and asked, "Professor Flitwick, could I borrow Wood for a moment?" Wood, it turned out, was a rather large fifth-year, who looked as puzzled as Harry felt. They both walked behind the Professor, tossing glances at each other when they thought the other wasn't looking. This state of affairs lasted until the Professor turned into an out of the way classroom and turned around to face them. Harry blinked; before, the Professor's face had been twisted into a position of uppermost outrage. Now, she looked like she was almost smiling.

In a voice that seemed a little high-pitched with excitement, she told them, "Wood, I believe I have found you a Seeker."

Wood's face cleared and he gave Harry a calculating gaze that made Harry feel like Wood was putting him on some sort of giant mental scales. "Are you sure, Professor?" Wood asked; plainly, he wasn't fully convinced about Harry's Seekerhood, whatever that was.

"Mr. Wood, he caught a Remembrall a foot away from the castle, and still managed to stop. Charlie Weasley couldn't have done it."

Wood's eyes went large, and a smile appeared on his face. "He's just the right build for it too; light-speedy- we have to find him a good broom; I'd say a Cleansweep seven or the new Nimbus.

Professor McGonagall spoke up, sounding almost as excited as Wood, "I'll see about getting one, and talking to the Headmaster about making an exception to the normal first year rules. Heaven knows we need a better team than last year(Wood blushed a little). Flattened by Slytherin in last year's Quidditch final. I couldn't look Snape in the face for weeks."

The excitement vanished from her face, and the Professor drew herself up, as if she had just then realized how close to appearing undignified in front of a couple of students she had been. She turned and looked sternly at Harry. "Now, Mr. Potter, I want to hear that you are practicing hard or I may change my mind on punishing you."

Then she smiled, and said, "Your father would have been proud; he was an excellent Quidditch player himself. And she turned and left the room, leaving Harry with the still grinning Wood.

After a long moment, Wood coughed, and Harry turned to him. "Well then, you'll have to show up for Quidditch practice three times a week, and I want you to meet me an hour before dinner so we can test you out. Any questions?

Harry nodded, and asked the thing had been brothering him for the past couple of minutes. "What's Quidditch?"

Wood stared at Harry for a long moment, looking like Harry had just kicked him in a very sensitive place. Then, with a long groan, he put a hand over his eyes, and under his breath, said "I should have known there was a catch."


End file.
